


the fast lane

by gruhukens



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Human, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e03 Gridlock, Gridlock AU, Multi, Polyamory, Road Trips, i don't think gridlock au is even a thing but i really feel like it should be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:37:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1231861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gruhukens/pseuds/gruhukens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gridlock AU. Imagine that Amy and Rory are a newlywed couple taking the Motorway to a fresh start elsewhere. Imagine that Eleven is a human traveller seeking out new adventures. Now imagine that it's the year five billion in New New York, and that the Motorway they are travelling on is about to be sealed off for twenty three years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the fast lane

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like this au absolutely needs some kind of explanation
> 
> i have literally always wanted to do a gridlock au, not only because it is one of my favourite episodes ever but because i feel like there is so much to explore character-wise that didn't make it into the episode, prob. b/c of time constraints. how did people and relationships change and evolve in such a tiny space for such a long time? how deep are the repercussions of realising they might never see the surface again?? how does day to day life even work below the ground???
> 
> making this a weird kind of in-verse au did complicate things a little, doctor-wise, so in terms of eleven's role in this fic, just consider him human, with a human past. completely unaffiliated with the time lord we know and love - who keeps his canon role in the episode's narrative - in all but personality.
> 
> this fic owes its tone to hozier's take me to church, which has been on loop for about three days now and is literally playing as i type this sentence.
> 
> as always, if none of this makes sense and you'd like clarifications or if you think this needs warnings, please do not hesitate to contact me.

It starts in Brooklyn.

When they first bring up the offer of a journey - in the middle of a coffeeshop, just chatting in line - he's apprehensive. The Motorway is not his style of travel at all - it's cramped, restricted and slow, where he, being a traveller, values choice and freedom above most things. The Motorway means months beneath the surface in a tiny car, even if coming with them means they'll all be travelling on the fast lane for at least part of the way.

And there's the fact that he hardly knows them, but honestly, that's more of a point in their favour. He  _loves_ new experiences. Luckily for them, that's how they choose to spin it to him - 'The New New York Motorway? We've never been either! Only air and foot travel before, and it's supposed to be legendary!'

Grudgingly, he admits he is curious.

The two of them are newlyweds, clearly fresh from New Britain by accent, a fact which is hugely exciting to him. Real travel, not just commute, is so difficult these days, even for those with money. In Eleven's experience, you've got to be a certain kind to even attempt it. And New Britain is so far away - years - but they're here all the same. It tells him a lot about them even before they really introduce themselves, which ends up being halfway through the conversation, after they'd proposed that he shack up with them for six months in a tiny vehicle. He does like their style.

‘Mr and Mrs Pond,’ the lady says, hanging off her husband’s arm with great enthusiasm and a strong Scottish accent. ‘Amy and Rory, at your service.’

Rory rolls his eyes and elbows her, but there’s no heat. ‘Mr and Mrs  _Williams_ ,’ he stresses, and she cuffs him round the head, and then they’re off having a mock fight. Eleven watches with an increasing sense of entertainment.

They’re very much in love, the he thinks, with a fond glow in the pit of his stomach. He finds himself deciding almost on the strength of that alone. It’s been a long time since he’s travelled with someone, and their open affection for each other could do him some good. But then Rory looks over and smiles warmly – not for Amy, just for him – and he’s decided. He is lonely. This could be good.

They’re over the moon when he interrupts their fight to tell them.

'Do you really mean it?' Amy says. 'Because you'd have to put up with us a for a bit, you know. It's not fast lane all the way to Staten. And the husband snores.'

'As long as  _you’re_ sure,’ he says. ‘I’d love to tag along - I’ve got loads of interesting stories to pass the time. And pockets with all kinds of interesting things in them. Bags too. And hats. It’ll be great! An adventure.’

'Great,' says Rory, beaming. 'We knew you'd be the one. As soon as we saw your bowtie – very cool.'

Eleven straightens it, and grins.

 

* * *

 

 

He arrives at the carpark at the designated time with two suitcases, a backpack and a fez. They'd retreated back to the Ponds' room to go over all of the details after Eleven had agreed, and Amy and Rory had promised they'd take care of the supplies - food, cleaning products, anything else all of them might need - so all he's got is a selection of clothes and small possessions that he carries with him everywhere. 

They're running a little late, and the first thing Amy does when she arrives is eye the hat with deep mistrust.

'Oh no, I don't think so,' she says in lieu of a hello, and plants her hands on her hips. 'I am not travelling for six months with someone who chooses to wear a fez. We have obviously made a terrible miscalculation in our choice of carsharer.'

'Would you prefer a cowboy hat?' asks Eleven. 'I could have packed that instead. And it is, you have to admit, a very high-quality fez. The highest quality fez. Fezzes are cool. Don't you think you're being a bit judgemental, Amelia?'

Amy makes a face while Rory rolls his eyes. Eleven thinks he might be sensing a bit of a theme.

'You're literally talking nonsense,' Rory says to both of them, picking Eleven's suitcases - and then, to Eleven, 'Everything packed? Ready to go?'

The words cause a swoop of apprehension in Eleven's stomach.

'Yes! Excellent! All good,' he says instead, but he thinks he might not sound as convincing as he hopes, because Amy zeros in on him, frowning.

'I was kidding,' she says, taking his arm and looking a little worried. 'I don't really mind the fez, I'm just nervous, you know, letting my mouth run. We've been air travel the whole way so far, and this is the last leg, it's a bit nerve-wracking. Are  _you_  okay? It will be a few months to Staten, and you barely know us. You know it's not too late to say no, right? We don't mind. Do we?'

She hip-checks Rory, who shakes his head seriously.

For a second, Eleven really considers it: thanking them, and walking away, spending the next couple of months under an open sky instead of beneath the ground, going where he likes, doing what he likes. But the feeling passes. It's a challenge of sorts, this journey; a new experience at the very least, and he's never been able to resist one of those. He straightens his shoulders, rubs his hands together and offers them both a blinding smile.

'Geronimo,' he says, and Amy smiles back delightedly.

'Alright then,' says Rory, hoisting a suitcase onto his shoulder and grinning at Eleven. 'Time to say goodbye to the sun. We're mostly packed: we've just got a few pre-journey checks, and then we're off to the Motorway. The entrance is just two minutes away.'

Eleven salutes, picks up the other suitcase, and together they duck into the car.

It's so small, Eleven thinks immediately, and he's hit all over again by a wave of apprehension. Rory's busy stowing Eleven's suitcase in a pile of other luggage and it gives Eleven the chance to look about unhindered. He peers out the windshield, and then into the bathroom. It really is tiny.

When he turns back to the front, he sees Rory looking at him concernedly from by the steering wheel.

'We really do mean it, you know,' he says softly to Eleven as he ambles over. 'You don't have to come. And if you change your mind, we can drop you off closer than Staten. We'll try to make it as easy as possible.'

Eleven is acutely struck by his kindness.

'I know, Mr Pond,' he says genially, and grasps Rory's arm. 'It'll be fine. We'll have great fun.'

Rory seems to relax a little: at least, he smiles and moves back over to the controls. 'Mr  _Williams_ ,' he says over his shoulder, mock-exasperated. 'We've not taken off yet and I've already got mutiny on my hands.'

Amy bounds on, carrying the last of the luggage. 'We're mutinying? Excellent. I'd make the best pirate.'

'Ah, so you'd accept a pirate hat,' Eleven says, relieving her of her bags. 'Duly noted.'

Hands free, she tweaks his nose. 'You can send me one from Staten,' she says, and bounces over to stand by Rory.

Eleven takes a minute to just stand and watch them bicker light-heartedly. They're great, he thinks. A few months at most, a new experience, and a new place to explore at the other end. It'll be great.

Rory looks back. 'Blasting off,' he says, and Eleven nods.

'Let's go!' says Amy, hitting Rory on the shoulder and whooping. Eleven feels the engine roar to life beneath his feet, and despite himself, there's a thrum of anticipation that runs through him from head to toe. New experiences. Travel. He finds himself grinning without even realising it, and he steps forward to join Amy and Rory at the wheel.

Amy turns to look at him as they approach the Motorway entrance.

'You alright?' she asks. Eleven adjusts his bowtie and nods again, watching the sun as it slides out of view.

'Geronimo,' he says, just as the sun disappears.

And then they're on the Motorway, diving into the lanes.

 

* * *

 

 

They don’t spend long in the fast lane at all, although it takes a couple of weeks to even get to a section which has one. The strange noises are all par for the course, for Eleven – he’s been so much dodgy transportation over the years and he’s come to appreciate a noisy ride as just part of the adventure – but once the car starts shaking and rocking violently, it doesn’t take long for them all to come to the unspoken consensus that they need to move back up, and fast. There aren’t too many people above them, so permission comes quickly.

Both Rory and Amy look at him with quiet, apologetic eyes as they rise. It stings, knowing that's months added to their journey, but he doesn’t mind as much as he thought he might. It's bearable.

He does mind enormously that they won’t let him see what’s going on below, however – Amy steadfastly refuses to expose Rory to the unfiltered air of the Motorway, and sits on the escape hatch for almost two days to stop him from opening it. In the end, Rory talks both of them down, but the hatch stays closed.

He cracks it a couple of times when they’re sleeping, anyway, just to take a look. He can’t see anything.

All of it bothers him for a few days, but then Amy brings out some absolutely fascinating texts for the work she’s writing and Rory starts telling stories about time they spent in New London - Eleven has fond memories of his time there, but between liberating semi-sentient saplings from Kew Gardens and looking into underground book smuggling he didn't get much time to soak up the culture - and somehow, somewhere along the road, it’s forgotten.

 

* * *

 

 

They all have their own ways of occupying themselves. Rory, as a med student, carried on boxes of medical texts which he spends a little time each day studying. He and Eleven will discuss the syllabus sometimes, although more often than not it'll devolve into good-natured bickering about what the best way to treat scragwarts is or whether Croatoan Syndrome is curable. 

Amy is thoroughly bored by all medical discussion: her involvement stretches as far as throwing biscuits at them when they get too loud. Instead, she's got her work: a treatise she's writing on the colonisation of the second Moon, something that Eleven finds equally if not more fascinating than Rory's studies. It doesn't help that she's brought a real, actual book with her onto the car, printed by a real printer. Eleven goes into paroxysms of delight when she unpacks it two months in, and demands to hold it. She won't let him until he's put on special gloves, and watches him with intense suspicion right up until the moment he sticks out his tongue and licks it.

After she forcibly removes it from him and hits him with a food container, he is banned from touching any of her research until they disembark. He insists he is an expert in books and was just trying to determine its age. She locks the book back into its box, drops the key down her top and promises that if he touches it again, she will throw his fez out the hatch.

Later in the days, though, when Sally Calypso has conducted them through the evening's song and there's nothing but static, the two of them sit on the bed and just talk: first about Amy's research, but later, when Rory puts aside his work and comes to join them, about anything and everything. It becomes a nightly thing, his favourite part of a growing routine that Eleven, alongside Amy and Rory, is starting to automatically fall into.

He finds very quickly that he was entirely unprepared for Motorway travel. It had seemed, although daunting, like an acceptable arrangement above ground - new spaces, new experience, new people, in exchange for some restricted freedoms - but he thinks maybe he didn't really understand the extent of the Motorway, how cramped and enclosed everything is. The months that he'd be spending travelling had resembled little more than an obstacle he'd have to overcome to get to the other side, but now that he's facing them as a very real future, the knowledge is almost crippling. He is almost an almost pathological wanderer by nature, never staying more than a few nights in one place, and it doesn't take long for him to hugely regret that the first time he tries any form of settling down it's somewhere he literally cannot leave.

But it's something he has to accept, just as Amy and Rory do, and as he settles he finds there are certain tricks to it.

All of them get up when Sally Calypso wakes them up; they have breakfast, take their muscle stimulants, shower one at a time, or Amy and Rory together. That's another thing he hadn't considered - being a 24 hour third wheel to two exuberant newlyweds - but it's astonishing how soon it stops bothering either of them. There's only so many times Eleven can walk in on nakedness before it stops being remarkable, and only so many times Amy can mistake him for Rory before he gets used to being casually touched on the neck or arm or face. After a while, it stops being just Amy's mistake, and ends up just being what they do. Amy will drape herself across Eleven's legs to read. Rory will squeeze Eleven's shoulder as he passes. Eleven will wake grasping Amy's hand, or with Rory snuffling sleepily at his side.

He doesn't take it personally. Not only is it a space so small there's no room for personal space, but there's the unconsidered issue of isolation. Eleven misses other people, feels the loss of humanity like a buzz under his skin, and by the way Amy and Rory gravitate towards him, he's guessing it's just as strong for them. He made a valiant attempt during the first few weeks and months to keep to himself and give them space to do married things, but it's miserable and boring to lock himself into the bathroom for hours on end, and he fears he might have been giving them some very dubious impressions about his digestive system. They don't seem to mind at all when he stays in front; in fact they appear to prefer it. It seems to be the rule of thumb that things don't work the same way as he is used to, beneath the surface, and that learning the new way of things is paramount to survival.

Eleven never considered that endurance, of all things, would be an issue on the Motorway; after all, he has enough food to eat, and muscle stimulants to keep his body healthy, and more rest time than he could ever know what to do with. Logically, he's more secure than he's been for a very long time. But he's finding that maintenance of the mind in such a small space is a problem he didn't forsee, and it's a tougher job than he'd ever imagined. Routine becomes essential, coexistence a priority, entertainment - something that Eleven had never had any difficulty generating before - becomes a matter of survival if he wants to be able to get up in the morning. He's always considered himself a man too large, too old for his own body, even when more or less free to roam as he pleased. Being stuck in a box that's fifteen feet by ten is a reality far scarier than anything he's ever had to face under wide skies.

There are some things that help; namely, people. He finds the comms very early on and quickly establishes communications with a number of cars around them. A Silurian and a human named Vastra and Jenny a couple of cars above them spend a lot of time trading stories back and forth with them, while Amy in particular makes friends with a queenly woman somewhere behind them who goes by Liz 10. And two cars over there's another medical student by the name of Rita, with whom Eleven gets on like a house on fire. He, Amy and Rory spend a couple of hours each day squeezed in front of the tiny screen, and it helps. It helps.

Amy and Rory, though, are by far the most important part of Eleven's life on the Motorway, and he comes very quickly to be grateful that of all the people he could be trapped below with, he has them. Amy, bright and vivacious, provides endless ideas for entertainment and distraction when Eleven feels like climbing the walls. Rory, serious and kind, balances him out, sits with him when his mind just won't turn off and talks him through it. And together - together, Eleven feels absolutely blessed to be part of what they share, even for such a short time and under such awful circumstances. They hold back so very little of their relationship from him, Eleven almost feels swallowed up sometimes by the strength of their affection, even when they're fighting. They get by. None of it's easy, but it's liveable.

And of course, as his turnoff approaches, he believes it won't last for long.

 

* * *

 

 

At first, the Staten Island junctions being closed doesn’t scare him. Amy and Rory fuss over him, tell him they’ll pass their Queens turnoff and all go around again until he gets there safely, but he finds it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it might. He’s barely broached the surface of all the stories he wants to tell them, and he finds there’s still so much more that he wants to learn about them both.

The second time around, he panics, although he tries not to. He locks himself in the toilet until Amy bangs on the door and demands that he come out. This time, she and Rory make no promises about doing the loop again, and when the Queens turnoff flashes up closed, a kind of numbness falls over the whole car.

The third time around, he’s expecting it. And then he just stops counting.

 

* * *

 

 

For a long time, nothing is easy.

It kills him, the way they each individually decide to stop talking about the future at all. Before, they'd devoted whole evenings to discussing what was waiting up top at their respective junctions - Rory had a medical placement lined up in a new teaching hospital, Amy was going to access top research banks with a shot at finishing her book and gaining professorship, and Eleven - well, Eleven was just looking forward to new experiences, no matter what they were.

There is never anything new in their tiny car. All of their futures just - stopped existing.

Sometimes it feels like he's losing himself altogether, and it terrifies him. He has been a man defined by his experiences past, present and future, and while he thought it was bad just living in a small space, that is absolutely nothing compared to the enormity of knowing he might never leave it.

After they stop making desperate calls to the city above, none of them touch the comms any more. Nobody opens texts. Nobody talks. They do little other than trade off shifts at the wheel, waiting for the car in front of them to move so they can gain a few more feet. Eleven eats. He cleans up. He waits, and he drives, and then he falls back to sleep.

It's quite honestly the closest thing Eleven has ever experienced to hell on earth. And the worst part is, he's never really sure whether it's going to be over. As long as there's a chance that next time, a junction will be open to them, he doesn't think they can ever stop driving, just in case. And as more and more cars join the road, traffic just gets slower, and slower, until Eleven has entirely lost track of where they are. Not that it matters. If a space opens up, they drive into it. That's all they do any more.

He watches Amy and Rory float around the car like ghosts. He cannot remember the last time he touched another human being. He wishes it would end.

One evening, he finds Rory curled up over the steering wheel, just staring at the floor. Eleven takes a breath and crouches down beside him, smooths the sandy hair away from his forehead. There's a lump in his throat so big that for a moment he forgets how to breathe. Rory doesn't look at him.

'I was going to be a nurse,' he says tonelessly. 'I was going to save lives. We travelled all this way.'

'Oh, Rory,' says Eleven, and strokes his thumb across Rory's cheek. There's not much else to say. Amy finds them ten minutes later, foreheads pressed together and just breathing.

'Boys,' she says, without preamble, 'for God's sake. This has got to stop.'

'How?' asks Rory, without moving or opening his eyes. 'We don't really have a choice, unless you can magic up a ladder to the surface.'

'I wasn't talking about the car, stupid,' she says, and she sounds angry now. 'I meant all this. We didn't come down here to die. So what if we don't know what's going to happen tomorrow? How is that any different to what it's like on the surface? All we have is what we make of it. We survive, and we keep going, and we're going to start living again. Now.

She pauses, and reconsiders.

'Maybe tomorrow. Right now, we're going to sleep. All of us. And  _tomorrow_ , when we wake up, we are going to start living again.'

Eleven opens his eyes to Amy waving one of her soft hands in front of him. Exhausted, he takes it, and lets her pull him up. On the other side, Rory is leaning heavily on Amy's shoulder. They stumble over to the tiny bed, Amy catching up bedclothes from the floor on the way.

Eleven ends up cradled between Amy and the side of the car, legs hopelessly tangled up with both Ponds'. Someone's hand is resting on his stomach; he thinks it's Rory's. His face is pressed into Amy's shoulder and there's a blanket pulled right up to his chin.

'My boys,' Amy says gently, running her fingers through his hair. She sounds as wrung out as Eleven feels. 'My beautiful boys.'

Somewhere on the other side of Amy, Eleven can hear Rory softly crying, and his own hands are fisted so tight in the cotton of Amy's shirt that his nails are digging through the fabric into his palms. But or the first time in a long time, he thinks maybe he can feel the first stirrings of something that resembles peace.

'Ponds,' he says into Amy's shoulder. He is absolutely drained. 'I'm so glad it was you.'

He sleeps.

 

* * *

 

 

Inch by inch, things begin to get better. Eleven no longer feels like waking up is a task, and it's much easier for all of them to keep to a normal routine, which gives him a huge sense of comfort. He's clearheaded for the first time in a long time: eats right, sleeps right, spends a long time chatting to the drivers in other cars. True, he mostly avoids thinking about or discussing the future at all - just as Amy and Rory do - but for the most part, life is okay.

One negative thing Eleven is conscious of is a kind of shift in the dynamic of the car. Before - before the junctions had closed, he'd fitted effortlessly into the spaces that Amy and Rory made for him in their relationship, but these days, there feels like something of a strain in the way things work. They act unsure around him - moving to touch him, or seeming about to say something, but withdrawing. Once or twice he's exited the bathroom to the sound of abrupt silence and two guilty stares, like they'd been discussing him behind his back. They're as kind as they always are, but he can't help but feel that the openness of those early years is gone. It's a horrible feeling - like he's carried out some great transgression he's not aware of - and one he can't quite escape from.

Rory corners him in by the wheel one day, looking guilty. When he says they need to talk, Eleven almost feels sick.

'Look, I think we all know things have changed,' Rory says, settling onto the driving seat. Eleven can only kind of dumbly nod. 'To be honest, we weren't expecting this. Me - and Amy. We weren't expecting you at all. God,' he says, and he runs his hands through his hair, 'unpredictable. That's you, to the bones. You just kind of - crashlanded in the middle of our neatly planned life... of our neatly planned marriage.'

Eleven's blood runs cold. This is it, he thinks. This is what they've been concerned with. Maybe he's made them too uncomfortable with his obvious affection. Maybe they'd like to put a little more distance between him and them, and their marriage. God, he thinks with a flash of panic. Maybe Rory even believes he's after Amy: that he holds them and their relationship in such low regard that he'd pursue an affair with no thought to what it would mean to either of them.

'Do you really think Amy still belongs just to me?' Rory says. He doesn't sound hurt, more curious.

Eleven is acutely aware that in the background somebody has begun to sing the evening hymn. He fixes on that: he’s at a loss for what to do, or what to say. It comes to him very suddenly that if he were to have somehow hurt either Amy or Rory, no matter how inadvertently, it would absolutely devastate him. It would break his heart.

'And do you really think,' Rory continues quietly, and as Eleven looks up he meets Rory's firm, steady gaze, 'that I still belong just to Amy?'

Rory rises from his seat smoothly, stepping forward so there's only inches between them. He takes Eleven's face in his hands - hesitates, like he's gauging for some kind of reaction - and kisses him once, soft and sweet.

When he pulls away, Eleven is left hanging, eyes shut and mouth a little open.

'Was that okay?' Rory says, worried. 

'I- I hadn't thought -' Eleven says, and then closes his mouth again. It's not often he's rendered speechless, but in this case he feels very slightly like a bomb has hit him. 

Amy’s hands – Eleven hadn’t heard her approaching, but it’s definitely her soft hands and with it her sweet perfume – slip around his waist, and hold him firmly.

'If it's not okay – if it's not what you want, all of us together, you can just say,' she says, although her voice is muffled by his suit jacket. 'We'll be living together for a while either way. We just thought – me and Rory – it's best to be honest. Don't you think?'

'...I do,' Eleven says, and, still looking at Rory, his hands steal down to cover hers.

He’ll be the first to admit that has never been a religious man. He’s sat with Amy and Rory for services over the comms and he’s appreciated the way each car will raise their voices in song at six every evening. It interests him in a philosophical sense – why do people believe? Why does it differ from person to person? - but the intensity and devotion which Amy and Rory display towards a prescribed theology and some form of omniscient being has been something which he can never quite achieve, nor identify with. But he thinks that now, as Rory steps forward to embrace them both, and now, as Amy’s head falls onto his shoulder, and how, as they all three – together – stand and sway ever so slightly to the strains of Amazing Grace, that he might just be able to understand what would prompt someone to lift their voice in song with such emotion.

It feels a little like drowning, being touched with so much care and so much love. It’s almost overwhelming. But for once, this lack of comprehension and understanding is something he accepts, rather than fears: it fills him up, overflows, so that when he starts crying, it feels only natural.

'Happy crying,' he says, a little amazed. Amy snorts.

'Moron.'

 _Amazing Grace_ , Eleven thinks,  _which saved a wretch like me_ , and leans into their embrace.

 

* * *

 

 

It's not all smooth sailing.

Sometime around the fifteenth year Amy falls out with Rory. It doesn’t take long for all three of them to forget what the problem was; something small. It happens a lot in a car so tiny, Eleven thinks. Tensions rise, and there's no room to dissipate them. It didn't take them long to realise that keeping a cool head was absolutely imperative to everyone's state of mind - that arguments absolutely could not be allowed to fester - but this time, it's different. Nobody backs down, and something feels like it has snapped. For the first time, Eleven looks at the three of them and cannot see a clear way to knit them back together, and as things get worse and worse, the car feels smaller and smaller.

There is a lot of yelling for about two weeks. Amy yells at Rory, Rory yells at Amy, Eleven tries to mediate and they both team up to yell at him. And then, out of the blue, Rory just stops talking.

One month of silence later, and Eleven thinks that maybe, he doesn't know how to start again.

Four months in, Eleven finds Amy crying in the bathroom. She stops as soon as Eleven barges through the door, but her eyes are red-rimmed and her nose is running. Eleven crouches immediately, takes her hand.

'Oh,  _Amelia_ ,' he says, and gently knocks his head against hers.

'I haven't heard his voice for four months,' Amy says. Her voice is unsteady. 'Four months. What if he never speaks to us again? What if we die in this stupid metal box and we never get to hear his voice again? Everything passes so fast in here - it's like we're not living at all. I can't bear this. I can't bear it.'

'Pond,' Eleven says with feeling. 'We are all absolute idiots, and we're going to go out there and  _make_  Rory speak to you. You love him, and he loves you too. It's just this silly old car. It's just the Motorway. We can't let it beat us, eh?'

Amy smiles, still a little watery-eyed, and nods. Eleven squeezes her hand encouragingly, and tugs her into the living space.

Rory is slumped dramatically over the driver's seat, his head on the steering wheel. He doesn't look around until Amy clears her throat.

'I miss your stupid voice,' says Amy in a very wobbly voice. 'I miss you. I miss telling you I love you.'

Rory stares at her. 'I'm so sorry,' he says, a little hoarse, and stumbles over to her.

And then there's kissing and hugging and lots of that messy sort of love kind of thing and it's all too much for Eleven, so he backs carefully into the bathroom to give them space. It's bittersweet. They've fought, they've reconciled, and they will go back to being sappy newlyweds with eyes only for each other and their bright future together. Maybe they will have a baby. Right here, in this car, and it will have Amy's hair and Rory's eyes and absolutely nothing of the Doctor's, and they will be a happy family.

He grinds the palms of his hands into his eyes and does not exit the bathroom until he's sure they are both sleeping.

Later that night, he's sitting at the controls and staring blankly into the fog. The comms are on, but nobody is awake at this time, so it's just static keeping him company, while Sally Calypso flickers in and out of focus.

Amy's soft footsteps sound in the quiet space. She stops next to him and just stands. He doesn't look at her.

'Earlier,' she says. 'You said that  _I_ loved him. You said that  _he_ loved me. And when we turned around, you were gone. I wasn't thinking at the time - I mean, it's been a while, years, I guess we both just assumed - are you having second thoughts? I mean, these past couple of months can't have been easy on you either, you might have changed your mind, or just decided it wasn't worth it any more. That - we weren't worth it, any more.'

Eleven looks up.

'I didn't want to stay where I wasn't wanted,' he says quietly. 'Just in case.'

Amy looks pained, and then irritated.

'You can't just  _assume_ , you numpty. You have to  _ask._ We need to talk about things. That's what got us into this big mess in the first place. If you'd  _asked,_ then you'd know that - that -'

Eleven raises an eyebrow.

'Oh, shut up,' Amy says crossly. 'At least I'm  _trying_. You were just going to pine sadly away in the bathroom? For how long? We might never get out off this Motorway, and then you'd self-sacrifice yourself to death in a car  _loo_.'

There's a sharp breath from Eleven, and Amy seems to realise what she's said, because she softens a little and crouches down to look at him.

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know none of us talk about it. It scares me too. Terrifies me, actually. But you've gotta know that no matter  _what_ happens, as far as Rory and I are concerned, it's all three of us, no matter what happens. That's the future we're sure of. You, me and him. All idiots together,' she waggles her eyebrows. ' _Romantically._ '

'Ah.' says Eleven. He may be blushing. He leans forward and kisses her on the forehead. 'I've been a bit stupid. Sorry, Pond.'

'You're a prat,' agrees Amy cheerfully, and drags him off to bed.

 

* * *

 

What follows is a kind of honeymoon period that lasts for a very long time, and it’s almost the happiest Eleven can remember being. The beds on the car are small, but with some creative maneuvering, they make it work. He’s always considered himself to be a bit claustrophobic – resented that he was stuck on one small world, although he travelled enough of it to almost make up for that – but he’s beginning to forget that any world exists outside of their tiny car and Amy’s head on his shoulder, Rory’s hands on his hips.

When he closes his eyes, his whole world narrows down to the places that they are touching.

'It's very odd,' he says tiredly into Rory's shoulder one night. His eyes are closed. They've been at a standstill for a long time – a couple of days, maybe, and they've been spending the time just resting together, occasionally getting up to stretch and eat and clean up. None of them have as much energy as they used to.

Amy huffs against his ear. ‘What’s odd?’

The first time I saw your car, I thought, it looked so small,’ Eleven says. ‘I thought I’d never seen anything so small. I thought I might have made a mistake coming with you. I wasn’t sure I could spend so much time in something so ridiculously tiny.’

Rory laughs, and Eleven can feel the vibrations through his chest. It makes him grin into Rory’s collarbone.

'It's a bit late now,' Rory says, nudging him. 'Or would you like to get out and walk?'

'We can call you a cab,' says Amy.

'Maybe you can catch a bus.'

'Alright, very funny,' he grouses. 'I was trying to have a moment, if you two don't mind.'

Amy and Rory both fall quiet. In the silence, and the darkness, Eleven gropes around. He doesn’t open his eyes. He just reaches for their hands, and holds on tight.

'What I meant was, I thought this car was so small, and being trapped inside it for months would be an absolute nightmare, and that you two would absolutely drive me up the wall with your married bickering -'

'No pun intended,' says Rory quickly. Amy has to stretch to hit him.

 'I mean that I was wrong about you, about this car, about all of it. I was wrong to think that this was a waste of time, of a life. And I was wrong to think that something that looked so small on the outside couldn't be bigger on the inside if you two were sharing it with me. I love you so much,' he says, and then he chokes.

'You are an absolute sap,' says Amy, after a moment. Her hand is clenched around his so tight it's almost painful. Rory is conspicuously quiet. 'If we'd known you'd be this emotional, we wouldn't have picked you.'

Eleven laughs, and it's a little wobbly. He might be crying again, although he will never, ever admit it.

'I've heard it's not too late to take a bus.'

In tandem, both she and Rory both fit themselves so close to him that, for a moment, he can no longer tell where he stops and they begin.

'Don't you dare,' she says.

 

* * *

 

 

When the end comes, none of them are expecting it. Rory’s dozing at in the driver's seat while Amy and Eleven are lazily spooning on the bed, Eleven reading aloud from Amy's precious book - he wears the gloves out of habit more than anything else now, Amy long since past the point of caring what happens to it. He reads mostly out of habit, now, too. It's more out of comfort than of interest: at this point, he's gone over all the texts in the car more times than he can count. They're more like bedtime stories. Amy doesn't read any more, not since her sight started failing, but she likes the sound of Eleven's voice and Eleven in his turn likes to read, even though the dim lights have been little kinder to his eyes. 

He's halfway through a chapter when a monstrous crashing sound interrupts his speech, seconds before ray of brilliant sunshine hits the windshield.

It seems to strike Rory at the wheel like a physical blow and he falls sideways out of the seat and scrambles back along the floor, shielding his eyes. Eleven's book clatters to the floor. Amy sits up.

'What -' she says, and then the holoscreen lights up.

 _Sorry, no Sally Calypso_ , says an unfamiliar voice. Eleven lurches over to the screen, the light sending pain shooting through his head.  _She was just a hologram. My name's the Doctor. And this is an order. Everyone drive up. Right now._

Rory covers his mouth with both his hands. Amy stays absolutely still.

 _I've opened the roof of the motorway_ , the man continues. Rory makes a sound like he is dying.  _Come on. Throttle those engines. Drive up. All of you, the whole undercity. Drive up, drive up, drive up! Fast!_

'We can't,' blurts Amy, scooting back along the bed, away from the windows. 'We can't drive up. We can't. They can't just open the Motorway roof, they can't just do that. We can't go just back, Rory.'

Rory, crouched wild-eyed and silent, looks to Eleven.

It takes a couple of seconds to sink in, and then Eleven opens his mouth and starts to laugh. He moves gracelessly, grabs up the hands of both Rory and Amy and brings them to his mouth, words spilling over his tongue without his volition.

'Oh, Amy. Oh, Rory. My Ponds. We're getting out of here. We're getting  _out_. After all this time, Ponds!'

Amy shakes her head noiselessly. Tears are rolling down her cheeks. Eleven lets go of their hands and cups her cheeks, looking her kindly in the eyes.

'Amelia. I know you're afraid. But I promise you can do this - we can do this, all together.' He tilts his head forward, touches their foreheads together. 'All this time you've opened your hearts to me, expected nothing in return, and I have taken it all from you - just soaked it up, all these years, given nothing in return. But now it's my turn. Listen to me, there is a world up there - a new world, a strange world - and I know it's scary, Amy, but it's my turn to give you something.'

He turns to Rory.

'If you'll have me with you, I can give you the world back. I can't promise anything will be the same as it was, but those wide skies up there - that sun, and all the new experiences under it - that's what I lived for, before I loved you. I was a survivor. The whole world was mine, and I can give it to you. I can give you that safety. If you'll have me.'

There's a beat of silence, and then Rory stands up and straightens his jacket. Eleven can see the way that simple movement settles him; makes him stand a little straighter, hold his head a little higher. Rory has always been that way: set on a course, nothing deters him, nothing scares him and Eleven loves that about him. Loves it.

Amy's soft fingers cup his hand where it's still resting on his cheek. He turns back to look at her. She's still crying, but now her features are set, determined.

'You're such a  _moron_ ,' she says, that old fire back in her voice, and now Eleven's crying. 'You still don't get it. Like if we'd leave here, we'd just dump you somewhere? Thanks for the last twenty-three years, they've been great, see you? We'll drive out of here together, and we'll live up there together, and we'll die up there under your precious sky, together.'

She kisses him quickly, then rises to take Rory's hand and pull him over to the console. Eleven touches his bowtie and stands for a moment, just staring at them.

They are not the people they used to be: excited young twenty somethings, serious Rory at the wheel, bright Amy hanging off the back of his chair. They are not the same. Rory’s grey now. Amy’s not – her hair shines as brightly as the first time Eleven ever saw her, but she’s softer around the edges now, quieter. They all are. He didn't notice it happen, but it must have done, somewhere along the road. They aged. They slowed down, like a broken record-player, going nowhere. Just driving round and round the motorway.

But that's unfair, and untrue, he thinks. It has all been so much more than that.

'I would have done it, you know,' he says. Amy and Rory both turn to look at him. 'I would have grown old. I would have died here, in this car. And I wouldn't have resented it, as long as I was with you.'

'Oi,' says Amy. 'You made us a promise. You've got a world to show us, we're not dying down here.'

'A whole world, just for you. Your own personal fast lane,' says Eleven. 'Are you ready?'

There's a beat where they all stand and look at each other, and then Amy raises an eyebrow and punches the throttle. 'Geronimo.'

The car roars into motion below them and Eleven closes his eyes. He can feel the engine beneath his feet, moving them steadily higher and higher towards the sky, thrumming through him from head to toe like it did all those years ago. He's surprised to find a frisson of grief running through his chest at the thought of leaving this behind. But it's maybe more understandable than one would first assume, he thinks. He's had safety, security, love. It hasn't been a bad life, these past twenty-three years. It hasn't been a bad life at all.

So morbid. He laughs to himself a little. It's not a eulogy. This isn't an end. It's a beginning, a new chapter opening up in front of him. And he's afraid, of course he is, but Amy and Rory are both looking at him now, and he knows he doesn't have to face this alone. It's almost funny. In a way, it is a eulogy. Eleven the solitary traveller died down here, somewhere along the miles and miles of road, and he's a new man now - maybe somebody the old Eleven would have mourned, somebody fragile, so reliant on others that he can no longer see his own future apart from theirs. But he loves them. God, does he love them. Maybe he's weaker now for needing people, but he can't bring himself to regret anything that led to meeting them, or being with them, or falling in love with them.

So he steps forward, lays one hand quietly over Rory's shoulder and another over Amy's, and looks up towards the sun.

'My Ponds. My glorious Ponds,' he says, very quietly. 'Geronimo.'

And they’re going, finally driving; rising towards the light.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] the fast lane](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1756677) by [zamothac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zamothac/pseuds/zamothac)




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